Post date: Jun 9, 2009 1:37:21 PM
A few weeks ago, driving to an agility trial in the predawn hours, I listened to sportscaster Howard Bryant talking about the NBA playoffs on NPR. At that point everyone still thought that it would be Kobe Bryant vs. LeBron James in the finals, unless, as Howard Bryant put it (in a halting attempt to find the right words), "reality trumps the narrative."
Reality did trump the narrative, and Kobe vs. LeBron turned out to be Kobe vs. Dwight Howard of the Orlando Magic. Anyway. The phrase stuck in my head. I think it's safe to say that in my life, reality pretty much always trumps the narrative. Or to put it differently: narrative, what narrative?
I haven't written in my blog in ages. I was a single dog mom for two weeks and I was busy with a work deadline at the same time. Other than work, walking dogs, eating, and sleeping, the only thing I was doing was agility. I was determined to go to all the trials I had Trevor entered in, so the 3 dogs and I trekked from one godforsaken agility location to another. Our low point came when the dogs refused to walk up the see-through stairs of the Dixon Best Western. I had to lure them up with salmon treats one-by-one.
I recently looked at a training plan I wrote for my agility instructor at the beginning of May. I barely recognized it. It was all about Trevor's sniffing, broken start line stays, obstacle phobias, and so on.
Shortly after I wrote the plan, Trevor got neutered. His sniffing all but vanished overnight. His start line stay returned, with just a few minor lapses. I spent big bucks on a competition chute (since we'd had so many refusals), but I was too busy to set it up. I still haven't set it up. It kind of seemed like the second the charge for the chute went on my credit card, Trevor decided to put his chute phobia behind him. Now the naked chute cylinder is sitting in the back yard like a talisman, warding off evil agility spirits.
Trevor got neutered on May 11. He returned to competition Memorial Day weekend (5-23-09). Since then, he has gotten 3 new double Qs and almost 80 points. For us that's pretty good. Trevor is still somewhat balky and creepy on the dogwalk, but we're making good progress on it in practice.
My dad, who is the original dog lover in the family, will be 84 in August. A few years ago, he lost his beloved dachshund Rugby at age 14. Here is an old photo of Rugby with a wall of snow behind him:
My dad and Rugby had been inseparable, especially after my mom died. Rugby even co-signed my dad's email. So when Rugby died, my dad missed him terribly. He still had his rescue cat Fanny, and he tried to tell himself that that was enough. Being almost 84 my dad has his share of health problems, and starting over with a new dog after so many years with Rugby seemed impossible.
At first I pleaded with my dad to look for a new dog and I inundated him with rescue ads from craigslist. But he didn't seem to have the will to pursue it, so I gradually gave up and tried to respect his decision. But it still felt wrong to think of my dad without a dog.
About 6 weeks ago I called my dad, and he had some news. He was in touch with his local dachshund rescue. They had a middle aged male "tweener" named Otto that they thought would be perfect for him. He might be picking up the dog soon.
A few days later I got a frantic call from my sister. My dad had Otto, and things were going badly. Otto wasn't housebroken, and he had been on a destructive rampage since arriving at my dad's house. He was terrified of my dad's yard. My dad was getting discouraged. My sister ordered me to call my dad immediately to "save the adoption." As she expressed it, Otto got along with my dad's cat, this was as good as it was going to get, and we had to make it work.
I called, expecting the worst. Who knows, maybe Otto had even been returned to the rescue already. I braced myself. As soon as my dad picked up the phone, I knew Otto wasn't going anywhere. My dad sounded happier than he'd sounded in ages. He proceeded to tell me every cute thing Otto had done over the past 48 hours. Yes, there was that housebreaking thing, but he was sure they'd work through it.
After our phone call my dad found the old dog crate in the attic and set it up. He worked out his housebreaking strategy. He spent an entire weekend sitting outside reading the paper, watching Otto out of the corner of his eye, waiting for an opportunity to lavishly reward Otto for peeing outside.
Now a month later, Otto is 99.9% housebroken. He's good pals with Fanny the cat. He and my dad go on long walks on the canal every day. He spends hours exploring the yard that initially seemed so terrifying. Welcome home, Otto!